The dim moonlight dancing in her dark eyes, the ale-bearer smiled and kissed Serris again.
LATER, AS THE moon dipped toward the distant horizon but dawn had not yet arrived, the storm returned in force, and the gale woke Semana as she lay entwined with the nameless, raven-haired woman in the stable. She thought, for a moment, that someone stood above her—perched upon one of the rafters like a carrion bird scrutinizing its next meal. She felt icy eyes watching her and thought the world had become just a touch colder. When she blinked to clear her gaze, her watcher had vanished.
As she drifted toward wakefulness, Serris burrowed closer into the woman to cling to the warm comfort of that moment as much as she could. Then she rose silently, affixed her clothing, and pushed out into the swirling storm, head down against the wind.
In the early hours before dawn, the Victorious Hunter seemed more like a death house than a common hall. All slumbered soundly, desperately clawing at the last bit of sleep their harsh world granted them. The nauseating reek of lavender had subsided somewhat as the fire burned low, and now Serris could smell sweat and unwashed flesh. The whole place stank.
Shortly, the cooks would rise to stoke the fire and commence the process of feeding Gardh, but Serris had an hour yet. She stole soundlessly among the sleeping bodies, a wraith made of winter wind and purpose. She climbed the stairs, making certain not to step on any of the boards that had creaked the first time. At the top of the stairs, Jeht’s soldiers stirred sleepily and raised their weapons, but she held out her hands to signify peace.
“Need to see Lord Jeht,” she said. “Alone.”
The burned woman narrowed her eyes. “To what end?”
Slowly, Serris reached to the laces of her bodice and gave a tug, letting the garment slide loose to reveal a gentle expanse of bare flesh. She raised her chin and gave the guards a suggestive look.
“Ruin smiles upon Jeht,” the male guard said under his breath.
The other guard scowled. “Your weapons.”
Serris flinched away from her grasp, stepping into the male guard, but the female guard pulled her off before the man could touch her. She ran her hands along Serris’s limbs and body, finding nothing but the fine dagger sheathed at her belt. The woman took the blade, then nodded.
Serris entered into Jeht’s court above the common room. The ceiling creaked under the onslaught of the storm but held. The Defender of Gardh sat dozing upon his throne, while his slaves lay slumped about the room in various states of undress. Serris crept toward him, making no sound on her graceful feet, but his eyes opened all the same when she came within two paces.
“Ah,” he said with a self-satisfied smile. He stretched, fully confident that she intended him no violence. “As I expected. You’ve come to bargain for your master.”
“In a way.”
Serris reached toward her laces, making Jeht’s smile widen. When she reached inside her bodice, however, his brow furrowed. When she drew forth a small scroll, his expression grew utterly confused.
“What is—?” he asked, then his eyes went wide. “No.”
“Yes.”
Serris held out the item she had stolen from the guard at the stairs: the scroll promising the proscription prize for Regel’s return. Casually, she cast it into the nearest brazier, and the old, dry paper caught within a heartbeat. Jeht rose, but Serris kicked him back into his seat and held him down with one foot. Black char swept across the scroll, and the long-ago broken wax bubbled and melted away.
“Do you…?” Jeht looked torn between confusion and fear. “Do you know what you’ve done?”
Serris stepped off him, interlaced her fingers, and cracked her knuckles. “Murdered you.”
The soldiers appeared within a three-count, drawn to the commotion. They hissed challenges and pointed their casters at Serris, who had eyes only for Jeht. His various love-slaves had started to awaken, and they scrambled away from the throne.
A chill swept through the room, though Serris felt no breeze. The last remnants of warmth from the braziers vanished, consumed by something cold and ravenous. The burned soldier and the one with the patchwork beard shivered. The Defender of Gardh’s face widened in rising horror and Serris knew he understood what she had brought to pass.
One of Jeht’s slaves noticed first and uttered a tiny gasp of surprise. That drew Serris’s gaze to the throne, and she saw him. Regel stood over Jeht, his curved sword like a sharpened icicle poised at the lord’s throat. None had seen his approach, and none could move fast enough to stop him. And now that his shackles had broken—Jeht’s last hold over him burned away—Regel Frostburn, once-shadow of the Winter King, would call no man master any longer.
All fell to silence and stillness, but for Jeht’s accelerating breathing, which turned to terrified sobs. He inched away from the sword, but its unearthly cold held him in thrall. A dark stain spread across the front of his robes and his eyes rolled back and forth madly in his head. Serris watched as Regel destroyed his once-captor without uttering a word or making a single move. With only a glare and the weight of his presence, Regel the Frostburn unmade the man to his very core.
“Squire,” he said finally.
“Master?’ Serris replied, her voice soft.
“Ready our horses.” He drew the sword away from Jeht’s throat and the man swooned on the throne. “We are done here.”
“Not going to kill him?” Serris asked.
Regel looked at the two soldiers, who lowered their weapons and refused to meet his eye. When he passed them on his way to the stairs, they turned murderous eyes on their humbled leader.
As they walked away, Jeht pleaded for mercy that would not come, and his words became cries and then groans. Serris allowed herself a tiny smile of satisfaction.
They descended toward the common hall, which had come drowsily awake at the sounds from above. Confusion reigned, and a thousand murmured questions danced across the room like crackling flames. But one stood ready to answer those questions: the dark-haired woman of an age with Serris, who had laid down her trays and rose to the center of the throng. All turned to the ale-bearer, and she held the residents of the hall under her sway.
“Know that I have done this,” she said. “Jeht has betrayed the confidence of Gardh and has lost the power he once held to hold you under his thrall. I take the name Phend, the ancient guardian, for I will be Gardh’s new Defender.”
At first, Serris did not understand, but then Regel answered her unspoken question.
“She is Jeht’s daughter,” he said.
The revelation stabbed Serris in the gut. She could almost feel a blade sawing through her innards, and she could imagine the dark eyes of the one who held it by the hilt.
They paused on the threshold of the Victorious Hunter. The storm had lessened and now hung over the horizon, brooding and rousing itself to new violence. The road to Tar Vangr stretched before them, and Serris knew they should go. But she could not—not yet.
“Hold!” The newly-named Phend appeared behind them, and Serris turned to her. The women stared at one another over the intervening pace, which felt like leagues.
“I owe you a debt,” Phend said. “My father has lost the fear and respect of the people, and his power lies broken. You are the one who made that possible. I will not forget this.” She reached out and traced the scar on Serris’s face. “You are so beautiful—my flawed Angel.”
Serris considered for a moment, then turned and left without a word. Phend bowed her head.
THEY SADDLED THEIR horses in the stable, falling as of old into a companionable, efficient silence. Serris felt shame and sorrow rising, but she would not give it tears. She could still feel Phend’s fingers tracing the gash along her cheek, burning hot with angry shame. When she thought Regel was not watching, she touched it lightly and almost wept.
Only when they sat stride their horses in Phend’s main street did master look to the squire who had saved him and speak.
“Your scar is not
a flaw,” Regel said. “It is part of you. A strength.”
Serris glanced over at him and their eyes met. “So is your pain,” she said.
Regel considered a moment, then nodded. He put out his hand and Serris took it.
They rode away from Gardh under an uneasy sky.
Brigands (Blackguards) Page 26